Eve-teasing

I was once picked up by police. Actually, that was not my fault. Nor was the police’s. we were just doing our duties. I was quenching my everlasting thirst for beauty, and the policeman was just working on an FIR.

Well, let me crack the nut. I know, your dirty mind has started thinking otherwise.

Yes, I was picked up by the police, on charges of eve-teasing. I was picked up by one plain-clothed policeman while I was still on my school-dress. I was escorted (not dragged OK?) to a policevan and was whisked away to the nearest police station.

Let me give you the background.

I was in class twelve then, and my school was, unfortunately, ‘only for boys’. Now, to tell you the truth, I have always, all of my life, hankered for beauty. No, it’s not sex or breast that attracts me. If a girl has beautiful eyes, I would look at it in awe. Similarly if a girl has near-perfect rounded impression of her breast, I would stare at it for eternity, without any ill feelings blotting my mind. Same goes with hair, hips, lips, eyes, curvature…the geometrical play on a woman’s body. I am a great admirer of shapes. Despite that, I am perhaps the safest guy. Trust me, I look at girls with a sculpture’s view point. No ill-feelings. I would rather not like to have sex with an amazingly beautiful girl, lest it destroys the beauty.

Anyway, I am digressing. So I was in class 12. I used to bunk my practical classes only to stand near the see the lgirl’s school gate and asses passing by. With a hungry eye, I used to savour the beauty-parade passing besides me. Dipannita’s hair was the most beautiful I have ever seen. And how reshmi used to throw her eye-lids wide open, when meeting an old friend from another section. Prerna’s morbid looks used to haunt me, my favourite pastime was to think, what was there to make prerna unhappy? Where this girl is heading towards? I used to wonder. Prerna committed suicide three years back. I stopped speculating. Cause I confirmed my answer that I always knew.

Sushmita’s graceful way of carrying herself was a revelation to me. I still give a second and a third look to a girl who has got that majestic aura on her movement. Madhurima, a little fat, but had a baby like face. and she was ever smiling. Actually she was the first woman in my life that I went and talked voluntarily. And how gracefully she accepted my friendship. “you were the guy who was picked up for stalking us right…? She burst out in laughter. And our friendship started. She is now the mother of two. She has a loving husband. And her babies have also that infectious smile of their mother. so cute they are.
Tumpa, had this habit of winking. Tanima is the most beautiful lady I have seen in my life. Romita had a body to die for.

I used to see how ruchika used to walk in a particular fashion, sliding a little whenever passing a boy, hiding her front portion and getting shaky. She was a flat-chested lady.
Keka used to burst into cacophony with her companies whenever they spotted a boy. They tried to impress us with their monkey-like enthusiasm. But, sorry, they were the last on my watch-list. It’s not that she was not good-looking. it was that she was shameless, like me. And I have always hated myself.

So one day the police came and picked me up along with my three accomplices. We were six in total. Two fled. We had a gang of seven. we were known as ‘bidi saptok’ or ‘bidi seven’. The name was given by our teachers. When we were in class ten, we used to smoke bidis seated in the last bench.

I didn’t protest. But the other three were crying as if they are taken away for an encounter. I was worried for them, they would be rusticated from the school, knew for sure. They have proved their might by failing year after year, they were from the commerce department. I was not worried for me, because I knew, I would not be chucked off. I was the first boy of our class. A little apology to the headmaster would do.

We were on our school dresses. White shirt and khaki pant. Students of nabagram vidyapith.

We were taken to the officer-in chief. A kind looking fat phlegmatic man of fifty.

“so you people disturb girls…”
The three started crying loudly, and sweared they would not repeat this again, that this was a mistake that should be forgiven as the first offend.

The OC looked at me. There were no qualms or tension on my face. “interestingly, you don’t look like an eve-teaser.”

--I am not.
--of course you are, we picked you up from the girl’s school gate. It seems, interestingly, You were disturbing girls.
--I was not.
The OC looked at the constable. The constable howled, “he was also with the boys sir, the headmistress had pointed earlier to him saying that he is the gang-leader. He gives the brains, these donkeys execute that.”

The OC looked at me again, “what’s your say on this?”
--if they are donkeys that’s not my fault. And I don’t give brains to them. they ask advice from me. I only guide them.
--interesting, and what kind of guidance you give to them?
--varied, I safeguard them a lot. Otherwise you would have met them beforehand.
--give me an interesting example.
--say, if they want to hit a man with a brick in darkness, I advice them to do it with a stone, that way the man would be safe and they would not be in jail.
--hmmm, interesting, and why don’t you prevent them at all?
--they want advice only on those things that they are hell-bent on executing. I cannot prevent them, nobody can. I try to maintain law and order.
--interesting, you are a clever swine. But I believe if I put you people in jail for seven months, you will never disturb girls.

The three donkeys started braying. Swarup fell into the officer’s feet. The floor wet with his tears. Bishu and banka were acting like mad. I was never so much ashamed in my life.

--so young man, you want to go to jail, these people aren’t ready. I am sure they would be good boy from now.
--I am not a bad boy. And I don’t stalk girls.
--ok, than what do you do.
-- I watch them.
--why?
--so that I can portray my characters truly. One day I will portray you also in my writings.
--interestingly, you have loads of attitude my boy.
--I know. I don’t want to show myself down to you.
--oh, really, interesting, you are a criminal, and still you don’t have any guilty feeling. You are showing attitude to me, interesting.
--one day I will be an IAS, that time you would be under me, I want to maintain my superiority.

--interesting, I am impressed. You know if I put you in jail and if you have a police record, you would never get the chance to appear for the exams. Your chance to boss me will be nill.
--I know you would not do it.
--interesting, why?
--because you are a good man, looks so.
--you also look nice, but you are a criminal.
--I am not. Watching somebody is not a crime, show me the law under which you would book me.
--interesting, ram singh, put this boy behind the bar. And release the others.

My friends were of course surprised by my attitude, I knew they would worship me for that.

After half-an-hour the OC ordered the constable to release me from the bars.
I sat in front of him.
--shall I call your father?
--your wish.

He called.

--do you know what your father said?
--I guess…well, no.

He looked at me for a while, “he said, I should take you to a jungle and shoot you dead.”

I loughed sadly. “I knew, he would say something like this.”

--interesting, how did you know.
--he made a driving license for me when I was only sixteen, he said if I do an accident with his scooter, police should not harass him, they should pick me up as I have the license.
--interesting, you got your license at sixteen, did you go for the test?
--no, I got it when I was learning driving. (why should I leave my chance of revenge?)

--interesting, like son like father. Both criminals. So what shall I do with you.
--you have two options, either you release me or shoot me. if you shoot me, you would lose your nephew. And if you put me on jail, there’s high probability that my mother won’t tie rakhi to you ever. You decide.

--interesting, the points are pretty interesting. Ok, I am releasing you. But, don’t disturb girls anymore. You know, I am in charge of this place, you should think of my prestige also.
--I don’t disturb. I only see them. anyway, mama, will see you later.


Balls, I didn’t heed to his warnings, I started eve-teasing with a vengeance.

I quit stalking after a separate incidence, that’s another story. But that incident changed my life forever.

aa mori bangla bhasha

Today is 21st February. We, Bengalis, fought for the dignity of our language against the mighty oppressors on this very day at 1952. Lakhs died. The seed for a new nation was planted, it germinated and formed Bangladesh. All for the language!


I salute the martyrs who gave our language the status to die for. And I request fellow bongs…don’t let the language die. Culture it. Trust me, it is getting endangered with the passing days.

Aamar bhasha, tomar bhasha, aa mori bangla bhasha.

My Valentine

May be I know what you wanted from me
May be I don’t

May be we were nice yesterday
May be we are no more

May be you loved me then
May be you still do

May be we can rekindle the old flame once again
May be the wind is pretty strong

May be we could forgive each other
As forgetting is impossibility

May be if you would have been there beside me
I would fight back one more time

May be you are happy
May be you are not

May be you miss me
As I always do

May be you can call me now
You know how much willing I am to go

Is there enough space darling
To accommodate me
In your world
I want to touch you again

Please hold my hand once again
Press it gently, let me cry
Darling, I want to get back to you
Dahling, I want to die

Accident!

Last Saturday I had a terrible accident. I fell into a drain and badly bruised my arms and I was robbed off a chunk of flesh from my right leg (bloody, it hurts still after having painkiller).

Of course it was not my fault. It was the fault of two bottles of Haywards 10000 that I guzzled minutes before my escapade. And the Karnataka government should also be blamed. In the hullah-bullah of new government forming, they forgot that the roadside drains are deprived of any light. They should have known, people observe Saturday night in Bangalore religiously and drunkards have an emotional relationship with the city’s drainage system. They puke there, they sleep besides a drain and I have seen people crying and talking to the flowing black water (in the absence of any river nearby).

But let me make the case clear at the first go. It was a dry drain. Had it been a flowing one, I would have committed suicide by now, that’s for sure.

Actually I was not alone. I was with Sanjoy, my childhood friend, who had also two bottles of haywards stocked in his stomach.. After drinking satisfactorily, we decided to take a stroll across the outer ring road. Sanjoy took me through shortcuts, through all dark lanes and darker by-lanes.

For hitting main road, we had to cross the salvager of mankind ‘The Drain’. I was literally sticking to sanjoy as I was not sure of the jelabi route and was afraid that I would get lost into this darkness.

Sanjoy brought me near outer ring road; I could see trucks zooming past. Sanjoy said “watch out”. I looked at the oil tanker on the road and disappeared in to the perfect darkness and three-dimensional smell. All kind of odor forming a collage of national integration.

My head was swirling, still I could figure out Sanjoy desperately searching for me, shaking his head violently to shrug off any hangover, if at all. I crept out from my temporary hideout. “where were you?” was his frantic call. I could not reply, it was paining like hell. Also the smell of dirt was terrible. I pointed to the underground. He realized it was serious. “Can you walk?” he asked. “No,” said I. “Please try to…if you can,” he didn't lose the hope.

But I was gasping for air. I realized my heart is not that strong as I fear it to be. I am a soft-hearted person. Forget walking, I was trying to lye down, as I could feel, breathing was getting increasingly difficult. Without much talking I lied down beside the drain. Sanjoy was moving restlessly, he was very tensed. I managed to say, “Sanju, I think I have broken my leg. Stop a car and take me to hospital.”

The cold night air was particularly refreshing, and the sight that somebody in this earth was sweating in this coldness, worried for me…was like a scene from ‘Paradise Regained’. I had already lost hope in this bloody world. I realized my friends are friends indeed. Though I was feeling Ok after lying down, I didn’t disclose it and let him run after vehicles at that wee hour of 1 am. He was trying to stop every vehicle, nobody was responding.

After 10 minutes of trying, he managed to stop a truck, it stopped right beside me. I always whistle, whenever I feel I am happy. As is my habit, as an automatic reaction, I whistled looking at the truck ‘sui sui…”

The driver had just opened the door to enquire, after watching me whistling, he snarled at me “bewra sallah…”
Pull his gear and started off…

I saw sanjoy running after him, “…bewra nahi hey…real case…hey hey…”

By that time I was also on my feet, I was running (or trying to) “hey hey listen…hey..hey…” the truck speeded away “fuck you…” I vent my anger.

After standing up I didn’t find it fit to lye down, so I limped, putting my weight on poor sanjoy. He carried me to his house. Removed my jeans, washed my wounds. I shrieked looking at it. It was a half-inch-long crater of devastating proportion.

I was sure it needed to be stitched. I know the pain! I knew taking sanjoy to the doctor will be even more painful. At some point he will faint looking at the barbarity of the doctor, and the inhumanity by which the wounds are stitched. He is a confirmed chicken-heart.

I called Ankur. A Punjabi in origin; appears to be ruthless, and the cricket captain of our department (though gets out at 3).

I gave an SOS to him, called him to take me to the doctor at morning and if stitches are involved, carry me to my home also.

In fact, apart from the vulnerability, I wanted to go to the doctor in style. He has got a CBZ.

I tried to sleep. And may be because I was particularly tired after all these experience. I slept like a log and woke up at 12 in the noon. I called Ankur to pick me up.

Ankur took me to the doctor, a lady doctor. The doctor told me to remove my temporary bandage. I removed. I was a little shaky. Ankur, along with the doctor looked at the injury with eyes-wide-open. I knew the seriousness of the case. They must be wondering, how this fellow survived without any medicine the whole night and half-of-the day.

“It’s a superficial injury man, why have you come to the doctor?” the doctor was angry. Ankur’s facial expression was like that of a camel. “I cannot smile even properly,” he said. “For this bruise, you gave me so much trouble. I almost could not sleep last night, I was worried.”

The doctor pumped me a tetvac, she dressed my wounds, I came out giving 100 bucks.

With a guilty feeling I looked at our cricket captain, “see, the wound healed overnight, that’s not my fault.”
“you know what,” he said. “…Devidutta, said the right words for you. If you have a headache, you shout of pneumonia. I should not have taken your words seriously. You are a pain in the ass.”

Bloody Devi, now I realize, how you stab me from behind. What was the necessity to tell this. Some issues need not disclosed at all.

Water-loving Ankur dumped me near Ulsur lake, without caring about the severity of the case.

I took an auto, came home, limping extra hard. My cousin and his friends flocked me (by then I had ringed my cousin, that I had an accident). “Six stitches,” I proclaimed with gravely. “Why you came alone then,” cousin enquired.

“My friend dumped me near Ulsur lake,” I was, quite naturally, sad. “Why?” his friend asked. “He is a bastard,” I passed my final judgement. “all of my friends are bastards, specially a guy called Devi, I need rest, fetch me a glass of water,” I sighed.

Since then I am getting VIP treatment. I never dress my wounds in front of them. I come out from my house limping. Alas, I have to come to the office and work with the same a******s who call me friend.

ilur

(This is a highly boring post and meant for ‘personal consumption’. Don’t expect any comment and won’t be surprised if nobody reads it. Don’t care actually)

If I would have borne in a rich family, I would have married by now. Cause you don’t have to worry about your future. We waste our prime time to get a foothold, we have to first make sure that we can survive with our wife and, if at all, children. The thought that I may lose my job at any given day, chills me and deter me from getting married.

Is it good, or is this sense of insecurity bad. Of course, many people would argue that it’s bad. And some others, a handful of them, would say that this sense of insecurity is actually not that bad. Well, I go with the second class.

I think the sense of insecurity that comes with an empty pocket, draws you closer to human beings, and the greatest human qualities can only spring from you if you can just manage to carry your life that is, can never think of luxury. In which having a radio is a big achievement in itself. And a status symbol too. Leaves your friends envious.

I started my career with a job which paid me only Rs.1500. I traveled all the way to Shillong from Calcutta to work as a sub-editor with a little known newspaper ‘The Shillong Times’. Detractors argue that nobody has heard the name of the paper across Brahmaputra, in short, it’s quite a well known paper in the north-east but it’s not heard anywhere in rest of India.

So was I justified in joining the newspaper for that meager amount? Actually no, if you go by the term ‘job’. Well, I didn’t go there for a job. I went there to learn something. Something called journalism. I worked there for one-and-half-year, met some excellent people, made some friends who, am pretty confident, would stay as they are for life long.
I met EM Jose, a six-feet tall mallu, with fire in his eyes. Long hair, with a beard, he resembles Jesus Christ. The chief reporter of ST, he was my journalism guru, to be precise, he taught me reporting.

My chief sub-editor, a sadist and a staunch Bengali hater, turned out to be my greatest well-wisher and though he usually did not risk anything out of his little knowing (he keeps on repeating again and again the same thing, and deletes anything that does not fall into his own learned things), he taught me the basics of editing, what it takes to make a story precise, to the point,, that hits you directly. Though he made me suffer like hell, only because I was a Bengali, that too from Calcutta, he was perhaps the saddest person when I left Shillong Times. I could read that expression on his face. I had turned onto his favourite student.

Ranjitda, another Assamese (I must tell, the relation between an assamese and a bong is not that cosy one, and bongs are responsible for that. Bongs have this bastardly habit of thinking themselves superior wherever they go. Forgetting good old, peace loving assamese were the people who actually let them live after the partition, they tried to dominate their hosts…when they got a sound beating during assam andolon, they started complaining how they were being treated. Of course, the history is pretty complicated and there are some follies by assamese also that someday I intend to write) taught me photography. He taught me as if I am his younger brother. I broke his costly slr camera, and he never complained. The day of my coming back, he packed all my mess beautifully and saw me off. I love you ranjitda, and I despise those bastard bongs who complains assamese should not be trusted. If you approach a person with hostility, his reply will be also hostile. In fact my closest friends are assamese or from north-east, mainly khasis and garos. Anup sharma, who is with Times of India now was my room mate and a great cook. He took care of me as I couldn’t cook.

He even washed my dishes, and I must say, he knows Bengali literature more than an ordinary Bengali knows. There should be a separate post on sharmada.

Then I met Syed Naquib-Uz-Zaman, my news-editor who later became my roommate after sharmada left. How can I forget the delicious foods that he used to treat me with. He is also a subject of a separate post.

I reserve my comment on my Editor Manas Chaudhury, who was conferred Padmashree the same year with Shahrukh Khan. What an inspirational journalist he is. His personality still reverberates in my mind. I remember everything from the first interview to the last day of our meeting. And my greatest gain in shillong was Didi, who was like my mother there, an entirely different post on her antics.

Biswajit sengupta, the editor of purbanchal sanbad and a distant relative of mine, introduced me to shillong times. Separate post for him also.

The time I spent in ST was my golden period. Always cash-starved, I knew what the meaning of money is, what it takes to earn something, what it takes to view the world from a half-hungry mind. What it takes to stay as a poor, away from all the cosy comforts of your house. I turned into a man from a boy after going there.

Think, money takes away all the joy from you. Now my job is not secured but I get a handsome amount. Now I think of my future saving, I live for future now, and have lost the knowledge of living for the moment. Life is a bitch now, or I have turned into a prostitute.